


above their dear and hallowed heads

by Cicadaemon



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Between Episodes, Drabble Collection, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-11-12 04:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18003884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicadaemon/pseuds/Cicadaemon
Summary: chapter 7: “Father would have been destroyed to see the man you’ve become.” Jed had said quietly. It was September and yet it was still so hot he was sweating. The heat and the hammering of his heart made him feel faint. Ezra's expression dropping and the feeling of unease that followed did not help.





	1. Ta forme connaît sa splendour

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stupid and accidentally deleted this drabble collection so I'm uploading them again. Past chapter 2 are the chapters that have never been uploaded before :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary could not help herself, but to closed her eyes and lean it at the contact. His hand was cool to the touch which only spoke to her own fever.

She had dreamt Jed had come by her side. She could no longer trust herself and what she saw, some days she was more clear and other days her father sat by her bedside. Her elderly cousin, Agnes stood as a means to keep her clear. She expected to see that sweet woman then, if she was only allowed to give one compliment to her it would be that she was attentive. Instead she was greeted by an empty room, though not a quiet house. This was her sister’s home and oft it had been filled with noises of her nephews about, though it was considerably more quiet now that the boys had been sent out to her brother and their uncle’s house.  

The noises she heard now was the hush whispers between two people. She couldn’t pinpoint the familiarity of the voices, fever had hit her during the night making things hard once more. She closed her eyes and fell asleep cause as the voices became recognisable and closer. All recognition was gone the second she began to dream.

She woke again to a soft voice speaking in French. It was jarring.

“ _-De l’épiderme sur la soie glissent des frissons argentés, et l’étoffe à la chair renvoie ses éclairs roses reflétés._ ” The words were slowly and soft, as though he was reading to himself, yet loud enough to be enjoyed by anyone willing to listen. She only knew the barest of French thanks to her late husband. Her heart ached thinking of Gustav, a part of her knowing she’d be soon to see him once more.

“ _D’où te vient cette robe étrange_ ,” The voice continued on and she realised that this was the same from early. She looked to the source and saw she had not dreamed. Jed sat in a chair next to her bed, looking a tad dishevelled and tired reading out loud some book. The sight of him allowed the night before to come rushing back. He was here. She found herself blushing as happiness swelled in her. “ _Qui semble faite de_ ….”

He trailed off only to look up from his book to her. He had such an open face; every emotion was on display to see at all times. She had gotten good at reading him in the year she had been at Mansion House, the most subtle of emotions never missed. Now his face read easy, realisation, to shame as he closed the book all the way to a sort of happiness that he couldn’t contain. She could easily say she shared in that last one.

“You speak it so well,” She said. He moved closer to her, placing a hand to her forehead. Mary could not help herself, but to closed her eyes and lean it at the contact. His hand was cool to the touch which only spoke to her own fever.

“I did live in France for some time,” His voice was soft still. “It’d be beyond pathetic if I didn’t pick up the language.”

“Are you fluent?” Her eyes fluttered open. “What is it you read?”

He blushed slightly, “A poem by Théophile Gautier. À une Robe rose… To a Rose-Coloured Gown. If I knew you were listening, I would have skipped over this one. It’s a tad crude.”

She laughed a little at that, but tried to keep it contained afraid it would trigger a coughing fit. “As though you are one for watching your words.”

“You wound me, Miss Phinney.” The smile on his face said otherwise.

“Taking a step backwards again are we?” She held out her hand for him which he took happily.

“Mary,” He all, but whispered. She shivered at the sound of it.

“Keep reading…. Please.”


	2. We Write Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After I am done with Hastings I will fight him next. For your honour my sweet and dear Molly._

_My dear sister Caroline,_

_I must apologise for reply so late to your last letter. I’m afraid it has been very busy here and I haven’t had much chance to sit down proper and write to you. I’m glad to hear that the boys are doing better, though I am sure the acutely feel the absence of their father. Have you heard anything from him or from our brother? George wrote to me about a month ago, but it had been very short._

_Send my love to the family, and to my friends. I hope you are doing well and pray that you write honestly, sisters are meant to be confidants in trying times and I will happily listen to your burdens and worries._

_I hope you do not find me baring my own grievances too much, but I do not have a friend here quite yet to share how I feel and even if I did I’d want to share with you anyways. Miss Hastings though her attitude has change so much from when we first met I still feel as though would kill me in my sleep if she knew she could get away with it. I try to be compassionate and a good Christian by trying to see her better nature, but I am often at a loss. I do not understand why she feels the need to be so cutthroat and ruthless, as we are all trying to strive towards a similar goal. I wonder am I doing something wrong that warrants such treatment from her? Linney, I trust you can see better than I can as to what the problem is. Motherhood has made you not only more observant, but more ruthless and I can’t help, but imagine how you would be here in my place._

_I have grown more close however with Samuel Diggs, the free black man I wrote to you about some time ago. Something seems to be troubling him, but I dare not push. I have talked to him briefly about you and he wishes you well. I figured you’d appreciate that. He truly is a kind spirit and I hope to make friends with him as I would be most blessed. On the other hand, Emma Green I find is still rough around the edges, though it is mostly likely due to my allegiance to the Union and hers to the Confederacy. It is odd seeing someone who believes so little in our cause and disliking slavery as well supporting their cause. A reminder I suppose that our issues are not so black and white and yet I cannot help, but still judge. Someone once told me we as healers have to put aside our opinions. Blood is not blue or gray, but one colour. Unfortunately, that person was Dr. Foster._

_I still cannot figure him out. Some days he seems more than alright to be friendly with me and other days he is down right nasty. Though that seems to be more a thing of the past the more I think about it. It’s been a week, but word travels fast. His wife is leaving him and soon to depart for California. I never put much stock into gossip and never went looking for it, but I work close with a gossip (believe it or not but a nun!) and I found this to be interesting. I cannot see why she’d want to stay if the rumours are true, but again with stocks and gossip. It is hard to believe him to be lovable to the point of marriage as he seems to thrive in being unlovable, but he is a kind man in his own way. Very observant and clever; ready to do anything to save his patient. I will never forget his quick thinking to drill a hole into a man’s skull to save his life._

_His ideas on race however! A man born and raised on a plantation! It seems like an odd sort of joke he’d support the Union. How can you fight for a side that wishes to make all men equal and still think our fellow man below you? I do not know how I feel about him._

_I fear I must put my pen to the side and rest, but I wanted to write to you before I could close my eyes. I hope you are well, and I send all my love to you._

_Till the day we are united again._

_Your loving sister,_

_Mary Phinney_

_-_

_My most beloved sister Mary,_

_How good it is to hear from you. The day before I was thinking of you and the games we use to play in the fields. Do you remember how I fell out of that tree once and how you had comforted me as I cried? Always bound to be a nurse it seems, but aside from that it was only proof of love. I was reminded of such since Albert had done so, right out of the maple we have in the backyard! Little Phillip had gone running to him in a heartbeat and had given him a slobbery kiss on the head even though his older brother had not shed a tear. I would like to say my sweet boy gets his compassion and love from me, but that is all Curtis I see in him. Maybe even some of you._

_I manage as best as I can though I find most days I am filled with longing. I have been making plans to send the boys off to our sister-in-law’s to spend time out in the country. I do not do so with a light heart, but I feel that being around their cousins would do them well. Phillip seems more affect by his father’s absence though he understands why his father is not here, but it is still hard on him. I have heard from George and he will be seeking a furlough some time soon. He hasn’t had much time to write though and I only know of this from Cecelia, though it makes complete sense he’d rather write to his wife than to his sisters._

_Love has been given from you to all your friends I come across and many have wonder to where they can direct letters. I have told people that I would rather ask you before giving it away since I fear you may be too busy for such things._

_Being busy is good, my dear Molly and I am surprised you still wish to write to me even with your hands full. It honours me greatly and fills me with warmth. As for your Miss Hastings, well I am not the kind woman you are and I will not be a kind Christian. From your previous (and more lengthy letter which I still reread as I find it most vivid. Why are you not a writer my dearest?) I fear that this Hastings woman is not a creature that you can reason with. An underlying issue may be at play here as people are not cruel often without reason. Perhaps her mother did not hug her enough as a child, though I can say her mother did not hit her enough either. Insolence like that should be taken care of when young, and her mother should be ashamed. I would keep going about your business as you ought to, but if I ever get the chance to visit Alexandria I will show her the fury that is a New England woman dishonoured._

_As for Samuel, give him my love. Your letter had painted him as a passionate young man, and this is what this nation needs. I pray he finds opportunity and that he seizes it with all his might. This Emma girl, well she is just a girl Molly. Girls take time to grow and mature, and I am certain in the environment you now find yourself in she will grow some and more. You must find patience and let her grow in her own. We all have some growing to do. Grow, grow, grow. I sound terrible and repetitive, but I don’t have much to say other than that._

_Now onto your Jed Foster. I would give him the title of Doctor if I found him worthy of such, but the more you write about him the more I wish to strangle him. I am so sorry to hear about his wife, but bully for her. If I was married to him, I would find ways to poison him rather than leave him. Tell me, is he handsome? Perhaps that is the reason this woman originally loved him. If he is from a slave-owning family, he must be rich, but I fear that would not be enough to compensate him for his terrible personality. Though, with a heavy heart I must say he is right. You are not a solider, you cannot choose who to save and who must die. It is your duty to heal no matter who wears the uniform. I am sure that both our George and my Curtis would agree on these things. _

_In his case, there may be more to what he shows. Though he could have the most tragic backstory and a heart of gold and I still will find myself wanting to punish him for his behaviour towards you. After I am done with Hastings I will fight him next. For your honour my sweet and dear Molly._

_On that note, you mustn’t blame yourself! I forbid such things! You must keep moving forward and if you do not I will have to come down for another reason other than to defend your honour. And that will be to fight you and your counter-productive thoughts. Forgive me for being so blunt in this letter, but you know how I am. I adore you Molly, but sometimes you frustrate me with your saintly like disposition. The world does not rest on your shoulders and you should not take the blame for other people’s terrible characters._

_I pray that you are well and keeping out of trouble. Please when you write to me, tell me one thing you are happy about. It would bring me great joy to hear that at least._

_Ever your affectionate and loving sister,_

_Caroline Phinney Lascelles_

_-_

_My sweet Linney,_

_I am so happy to hear about George! I must admit I was worried, but it does make perfect sense why he wouldn’t write to us. If he does furlough, please give him kisses from me and tell him that I miss him most terribly._

_I am glad to hear how Bertie and Philly, though I think you are too kind in saying that your youngest gets such a sweet nature from me. Please tell them that their aunt misses them terribly and if she should, she would come back to Boston to spoil them something rotten. Time with Cissy will do them good I am sure, but you must seek company when they are gone. I pray Agnes is till in the area and that you will go to here once the boys are gone. She is a good heated woman and family, she would keep your soul well._

_You may also give my mailing address, though I wish only to my close acquittances. Those who do not already have an address are done so by design. I don’t have so much time to reply to letters and I do not want more responsibility on me to do so. Call me selfish, but I do not care._

_I would normally counter all the things you had to say, but I must focus on one point. He is not my Jed Foster and you should be giving him the title of Doctor. He is good at what he does, and I fear you were right. Again, I am late with replying to you, but it is now due to him. Last night, I was planning on writing to you, to tell you of something I had done, but Dr. Foster had grown very sick. I uncovered something about him that day and that night that has now change my view on him drastically._

_His brother was brought to our hospital, a confederate man, and had to have his leg amputated. Foster did it as his mother had come with his brother and was very forceful. She did not want the leg amputated, though there was no other choice as gangrene had begun to set in and she was most terrible with him afterwards. It does not excuse him but seeing this gives me an idea as to why he his so callous. ~~I write this to you in hopes you do not judge him or say anything, so please I beg of you don’t. It appears our Doctor has issue~~ Unfortunately Doctor Foster has come down with a fever, but he has not shoved me away from caring for him. It spiked terribly around supper time today and he complained of terrible stomach aches to the point where he was practically in tears. I cannot help but feel some compassion for him this along with my new view on him has allowed me to see something other than a bitter man. _

_As to your question he is ~~handsome with lovely tan skin, freckles, thick dark hair and finest eyes I~~ fair to look at and I can see that being a reason for marriage I suppose. _

_I will listen to you, and I will try to judge myself less than I have. I will heed your advice and keep out of trouble. I hope you are doing the same too and that all will be well once you send your boys off. My love goes to you ever more._

_My heart aches for you._

_Your dear sister,_

_Mary Phinney_

_-_

_Sweet sweet Molly,_

_I would write a lengthy letter, but I will not. All you shall get is this so it is all you can focus on._

_I can read scratched out words I am not a fool. If you find him handsome, then I am afraid you are lost. Once you try to heal him back to life, you will fall for him and then my sweet girl you are lost._

_And if you ever bringing him to this house after this war is done and announce you shall love and marry him I will seize the opportunity for a fight._

_You know I am right._

_Caroline._

_-_

_My dearest and most adored Linney,_

_It has been some time. I will not give you a full letter just yet as I wish to give you a curt letter back first. The president is soon to visit how exciting. Once the visit has concluded I shall fill you in on all the details I promise._

_Your prediction was right._

_I refuse to marry him, but you are still free to fight him._

_You are always right._

_Mary._


	3. Bid Thee Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Either he was beyond hope or she was a force to be reckoned with.

There had been shame there when she had first left the room. Shame in relation to that he had allowed himself to sink so low; to allow himself to be seen as such. It swelled in his chest, threatening to implode and sending him back into the hysterics which he had been bordering on since his talk with his mother.

No, that stretched the timeline to far back. He could contain himself when he was or somewhat clear of head. He was never clear anymore, the cravings he succumbed to made sure of that. It was when the needle punctured the skin and he was hit by that first wave of euphoria that Jed Foster lost control. No, still wrong. It was when he over did it that he lost control.

He had overdone it for sure, and by God, the shame was overwhelming when she left. He had kissed her, a married man defiling a widow. The fact that was just the beginning of his inappropriateness nearly brought him to tears. He sat there on the ground for a while, Jed wasn’t quite clearly on how long he was there, felt himself go out of focus and he was washed away. Never had coat looked so interesting. He was barely aware of the soreness in his legs or the way his face throbbed. He just wasn’t there, not even in thoughts.

He barely acknowledged Miss Phinney when she entered the room again, the comforts she promised now with her. He was half aware by the time she tried helping him up off the ground.

That had to have been a day ago now. Fever hit him hard and when he wasn’t shaking he was near tears from pain. This had been the point before where he had given up. He had always been aware of this sickness and on one particularly brave day he had tried to rid himself of it. It should have been known before he started that failure would be the only outcome. It was all he was good for.

How quickly he could tally up his failures. As a son, as a husband, as a doctor. When he was not shaking, he was in tears and when he was not in tears he drowned in melancholy.

Miss Phinney sat beside his bed during the worst of it. Guilt would ravage him later for denying her sleep, but he was in no state to push her away. Some desperate, sad part of Jed wanted to be held and through tears he’d apologise to her.

She had smiled at him then, the same sort of look that she’d give the poor boys downstairs when in the worst of it. He understood now why it brought such comfort to them.

“I won’t accept any apology.” Hurt must of shown on his face, as she continued on with more hurried words. “Focus yourself on getting better, that will be the greatest apology. I’ll accept it when you are back on the wards.”

It was funny how such simple words could trigger such resolve. Even in great pain both physical and mental. Either he was beyond hope or she was a force to be reckoned with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I wrote this immediately after watching episode 3 catch me slurping on that 'loving jed but also pitying him cause i too relate to feelings of not being good enough and livng mary phinney' juice


	4. Sleep sleep 'grah mo chree'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all, she wasn’t the only woman to lose everything to this War.

This war had nearly destroyed everything that she held dear.

The first causality had been her youngest boy, so bright and wide-eyed, his enthusiasm knew no bounds. There had been a fierceness to him, one that she took pride in knowing she shared. They had gotten the news of his death after he had fought valiantly at Battle of Bull Run. He had never been in battle till that day.

It had broken Bridget in a way nothing had before. They had lost a child from the famine that drove them to America, but this was some how worse. There had been no warning, no lead up. Just the memories of him alongside his brothers and father, dashing in his uniform. He had promised to come home. He had apologised for leaving her behind. He had barely been 16, signing up under a fake age with the help of his brothers.

She had lost her husband and oldest son after that, though no immediately so. Dread had clung to her every time post was deliver till finally that dread made sense. Their deaths had hit her with an empty, ringing blow; each breath bringing her waves of pain and despair. She had worn her mourning colours till she could take them off and gone on to do what felt right. She signed up to work; to help the wounded.

Dorthea Dix had placed her at Alexandria Mansion House, and that had been all their relationship had been. She had worked through her grief and put up a front. She became the feared Matron Brannan, a strong and fierce woman that she had always been, and it felt good to be herself once more.

But now, with the taste of a strong liquor still stinging her throat and in the arms of Nurse Hasting, she was back to where she had begun a year ago. A mother grieving, a wife widowed so quickly, and a woman broken. This war had taken everything she had loved.

But even broken state, her resolve was strong. She’d see the end of this war and the defeat of these rebels who had taken her family. And she would go back to the wards with the same strength she had before. There’d only be a short time to mourn and she’d take what she could, but Bridget couldn’t let herself wallow in it.

After all, she wasn’t the only woman to lose everything to this War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lá fhéile Pádraig sona dhaoibh! I've been wanting to write something for the Matron for a while, but never did. I tried keeping everything as ambiguous as I could cause I don't know anything about the Civil War and my friend who's actually studying it was making my head spin with all the battles they were throwing at me. 
> 
> In this house we stan one Irishwoman.


	5. where all thy beauty lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He did not mind medicine, he enjoyed it beyond words, but looking on the small creek that laid just out of Manassas he found himself longing for a paper and charcoal.

There was a thrill that came with the ability to leave one’s impression on paper. He enjoyed this ability beyond words. The impressions made of graphite, charcoal, or ink on pages of varying colour. It brought a sense of satisfaction that nothing really gave him. He preferred white chalk and charcoal on sepia, though he was not prejudice to any medium or tool. His time at Princeton had allowed him plenty of time to sketch; to mix his passions together. Figures dressed in fine clothes turned into anatomical drawings that flooded his sketchbook. He looked back on them fondly, a reminder of a simpler time.

Clayton could have easily become an artist. His mother had valued the artistic abilities of her children and he had, as with all things, taken this to his advantage and it became an obsession. But when the time came and he had to make a decision, he did not go with he passion that had driven him so far, but the one that was hoisted upon him by his family.

He did not mind medicine, he enjoyed it beyond words, but looking on the small creek that laid just out of Manassas he found himself longing for a paper and charcoal. With July in full swing, the trees were at their greenest, and the grass slightly singed by the sun. The water sparkled brightly and brilliantly in contrast to the greens and yellows before him. Thoughts of ways that he’d be able to replicate the scene before him onto paper brought him peace he hadn't felt in weeks. It made him long for a time when he was not Major McBurney with burdens and expectations, but maybe rather the young man he was before this war with a sketchbook in hand.

That could not be reality though so a new thought took place. The thought that perhaps once this battle that was due to come was over, he'd could come back here and sketch it all out. But who knew how any of this would turn out, so instead of paper, perhaps he'd have to settle with committing this scene to memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to tortoiseshells (or @jamesknoxpolka on tumblr) for giving the inspiration to write this chapter. Over a week ago, during the Mercy Street Rewatch they planted the idea of McBurney being an artist in my head with that cute interaction with Lisette and oops it became a thing.
> 
> (And the post in case you're curious http://harrygoodsirs.tumblr.com/post/183531014905/jamesknoxpolka-jamesknoxpolka-mcburneys)


	6. come what may

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was for love that she pulled one letter out of the basket, the newest one arriving only a day ago, and sat by the armchair near her vanity to read it. His letters in the passing days had grown shorter and shorter, which he blamed on a lack of time. This one was no different, he spoke of Manassas, of the creek he explored with free time and of the few men he had worked with. But for the most part he spoke of his longing for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory. Tortoiseshells and I were chatting about headcanons for McBurney when the idea was brought up about him having a fiancee. And thus Euphemia Brandegee was born. I've been playing around with her character a bit lately and this was created. I'm not putting everything about here in the beginning notes, so if you're curious check out the end.

She had a basket filled with the letters he had sent her. Within them had fine descriptions of Maryland and Virginia; aside from a few, they had some sketch to go with it. She treasured each one and often before bed she’d pull one out from its wicker place to read and lament over the distance that kept the writer from her. He was off to the war though. Fighting gallantly. Or rather healing those who fought gallantly. Either way, gallant.

They were supposed to have been married by now if it wasn’t for this war. While she had control over when the date for their wedding was to take place, Clayton had nearly begged to wait till the fighting was done.

 “Or at least till I am giving furlough, though I suspect this war will be over by then.” He had said, voice wobbling. He wasn’t pleased by the idea and mostly likely had feared her reaction. But she would not be disappointed or upset. Not in front of him.

“You know I would wait for you.” That smile to her response was enough to wipe away any negative feelings. Disappointment and distress had no place here now or later. “I waited long enough to be engaged to you and heavens know, perhaps a long engagement might be best for us. These will be tremulous times, my dear. I might survive it better with want for my fiancé, not husband.”

“You tease me too much.”

“And you made me stress when you would not ask me to marry you.”

She could remember so clearly how Clayton laughed at that. A little bashful and eyes casted downwards. He did always become oddly shy when discussing things of this nature. Euphemia had loved him for it. It was for love she’d wait.

It was for love that she pulled one letter out of the basket, the newest one arriving only a day ago, and sat by the armchair near her vanity to read it. His letters in the passing days had grown shorter and shorter, which he blamed on a lack of time. This one was no different, he spoke of Manassas, of the creek he explored with free time and of the few men he had worked with. But for the most part he spoke of his longing for her.

“- _and with each day I find myself missing you more and more. I cannot wait for the day when we shall have a home to ourselves, with a piano and harp of course. Until then, sweet Effie, I shall wait. And long. And yearn.”_ The lettering was cramped and hard to read as it always was, but so easy for her to read. She could never not help but smile at the reference to his proposal.

She had waited on him for far too long to pop the question, and so had her father. He had finally done it after a night at the theatre as they took time in the parlour playing a bit of chess. Effie could barely remember the conversation they had before, but he had suddenly asked her if she preferred a piano or harp in their parlour. A simple question that seemed to recoil on him in an instance as Clayton suddenly turned red. She had responded, tearing up, that she wanted both and they had gone to the library so he could finally ask her father for permission.

The whole thing had become a reoccurring joke between them, despite the fact he was still obviously embarrassed. He was a stickler to adherence and perfect even in the most simplest aspects of life, and he always seemed haunted by his mistakes. And in cases like this, it seemed less like a flaw and more a quirk that made him the person she loved.

Thoughts on it all had brought back that feeling he had written about. To know he felt the same as she did made her ache and hurt. In a good way mind you, but aching was still aching. She could easily wait though. And long. And yearn.

A soft knock at the door woke her from her thoughts, not enough to make her jump, but enough to jerk her head in surprise. At such a late hour she was never interrupted.

With caution she replied. “Yes. Who is it?”

“It’s me, ma’am.” The muffled voice of one of their servants, Catherine came through. “Your father wants you down to the library.”

Horror had hit her hard enough to freeze her in place. She had only been called down to the library so late at night a handful of times. One of those was to inform her of her mother’s death. They had all been terrible visits.

With heavy feet she had dragged herself down the stairs, housecoat heavy on her shoulders, and entered through those heavy doors. Everything was heavy. Air caught in her lungs, and each breath was laboured. Her father sat in the green armchair near the fire, a familiar sight. Mother use to sit in the red velvet one across from him. The room was impossibly empty without her.

Her father looked up from a letter he was reading and to her. And he wasted no time.

“The Colonel has written to me.” His tone was even, and she knew who he was referring to. Colonel Clayton McBurney II, her soon-to-be father-in-law. He was always referred to as ‘The Colonel’ to avoid confusion. Such a title fit him better than his name.

“And what does it say?” She was expecting the worst news. That he beloved had fallen in battle. That she, Euphemia Brandegee, had been widowed all but in name. In a few seconds, she resolved to never love again, but that would not be the case.

“Your betrothed was injured. Some sort of head injury. He is being sent home for recovery.” He held the letter out to her without compromising his position. “You can read it all. I’d rather you know now rather than have made you wait till morning.”

She had taken it with shaking hands. Wounded. Coming home. These words were not registering as they should of.

The letter was sterile and spoke of what the Colonel knew. There was no mention of her. He didn’t even mention his son by name, but rather by his new title of Major.

Then it hit her all at once. And with a mixture of emotions she wept like she had never wept before. Effie didn't even realise her father had gotten from his chair till he hugged her, pulling her tight into his embrace.

“It’ll be alright.” He whispered into her hair. She was sure he said it with sincerity, but how could that be true?

How could it? She could wait and wait and wait, but how could she deal with this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Euphemia Brandegee is the daughter of a well-off family in New London, Connecticut. The Brandegees were real people. The one son, Augustus, actually sat on Congress and another was a physician. If PBS could completely mess with the Green family then I am allowed this. For the most part, she's a very canny person and is fairly good at reading people, but at the same time she can be fairly naive. 
> 
> An entire family tree was also made out for McBurney along with some headcanons. His family are social climbers, and his engagement to Effie is cause of that. But they genuinely get along. I don't know what else to say, there is surprisingly a lot. I might write more about her.
> 
> Also, apologises if this chapter was a little awkwardly paced. This was just me really messing around with the character instead of having a cohesive plot.


	7. will the waters still taste as sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Father would have been destroyed to see the man you’ve become.” Jed had said quietly. It was September and yet it was still so hot he was sweating. The heat and the hammering of his heart made him feel faint. Ezra's expression dropping and the feeling of unease that followed did not help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blacked out and wrote this so I don't hold myself accountable for how pointless this is. In all honesty though, this started off as me wanting to actually write about the 'Ezra goes through the ice' incident and I got a little carried away.

He had dreamt he was drowning.

The land that surrounded Frederick were littered with small creeks and rivers, all finding their way to the Potomac in one form or another. As a boy, he had spent many a summer day wandering around the land his father owned, never straying far from any body of water. In the winter, he would skate on it, often accompanied by his brother. One fateful winter, despite warning, Ezra had run out onto the frozen Monocacy River with no heed. He must have thought the ice would have been stable and strong enough to hold his weight. A boy of eight years could hardly weigh that much? He had gone through quickly, with a loud sound like gunfire as the ice gave.

Jed, with no thought for his own safety ran out and jumped down into the hole Ezra went through when he didn’t reappear again. His mind had only thoughts of how his mother would punish him if he had let Ezra drown. How much he’d suffer without his little brother, even if said little brother was his constant source of worry and annoyance. When questioned on it later by his father, he could hardly recall how he had grabbed and brought Ezra back up. He had forced him above the water while staying under, breath running short. He had taken in a lung full of water, which he had coughed out later with great pain, but before that he had grown afraid. That he was going to die and become lost.

That maybe he’d find his way to the Potomac too.

He hadn’t though. He had fought his way to the surface and coughed till his entire body ached. Then he had dragged Ezra home, or as close as he could. One of their slaves had spotted them as they tried to make it through the shortcut in the gardens.

As the years dragged on, he forgot more and more about that day. The little details that he could once recall were bound to fade in the twenty odd years since that day. But how it felt to drown? The feeling of cold biting at his skin? The helplessness? That never left.

He woke up coughing, as though water had filled his lungs again. Tears stung at his eyes and fear gripped at his heart until he realised where he was. The Monocacy was far from Boston, a pitiful thing compared to the Charles or Mystic. Once his heart calmed down to a regular pace, he threw the blankets over him once more. But his mind refused to slow.

He had been so quick to save Ezra back then. He had been quick to save him on multiple occasions. His father had always said that Ezra was quick to find trouble and trouble was quick to find Jed. Their dynamic worsened this fate as Ezra was the one that always seemed to drag him to trouble. Still, he had loved his little brother with a passion that could only be felt with siblings. Exasperation and insults were common, and he could say with confidence that Ezra accounted for most of the grey in his beard, but at the end of the day he’d lay down his life for him. He’d go against his mother a thousand times over, ruining himself in her eyes if it meant his brother could be happy.

He’d happily drown for him.

As he laid there in the quiet bedroom, the realisation that maybe this was his downfall. Ezra was pampered and spoiled, never could do no harm in their mother’s eyes. Even his father had been hesitant to punish him, which seemed to hit harder considering the brutality he had been capable of. He had been born mere weeks after the death of a sister who Jed couldn’t recall (he had barely been four himself but he remember her having hair blonder than Ezra's), and it seemed that because of the circumstances, his brother had gotten special treatment. At least it appeared so to him, as a young and jealous boy. He had craved the attention his brother had gotten from their mother, but after that incident with the ice, his want for such attention faded away. There seemed to be no point to it anymore. He had yanked his brother from an icy death and he had still gotten punished for not stopping him in the first place. It was then he finally realised something.

Ezra could never do wrong, while Jed would always do wrong. It had created an independent man out of him, one who was not quick to let himself be loved or allow anyone in. He wasn’t stupid enough to deny his upbringing played some fault in his inability to have a decent relationship. But really most of that accounted to foolish behaviour and stupidity he was only now starting to admit.

But Ezra was a different type of fool. A dangerous one who forced himself on a woman because he didn’t even see her as a person. One who’d be so callous enough to want to sell away his child. One who refused to acknowledge he had done wrong. He had tried speaking to Jed as he grabbed his things from upstairs, but he had no patience to deal with him. In the moment the anger he felt (and that slap to the cheek) was still so strong. There was nothing more that Jed wanted than to ignore him. But he didn't He had only turned to his brother long enough to pull a phrase his mother used on him so constantly.

“Father would have been destroyed to see the man you’ve become.” Jed had said quietly. It was September and yet it was still so hot he was sweating. The heat and the hammering of his heart made him feel faint. Ezra's expression dropping and the feeling of unease that followed did not help.

That feeling struck him again. Feeling sweaty and uneasy were not a fine combination. It seemed ridiculous that all of this came from a familiar nightmare. He wanted to shove it away. Ignore it till morning. That he could do and was in the processes of doing so when another thought hit him. He was an uncle now. He didn’t even know what Julia had named his niece. And Ezra wanted to sell her away.

He sighed, the sound loud in the dark. He should have let Ezra drown. Or maybe not. Nothing really made sense anymore. Before Jed could really think on it more, exhaustion hit him, and he found himself slipping back to sleep.

He had no dreams, but that damned uneasiness still clung to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many headcanons in only 900 odd words. So where to begin.
> 
> I figure the Foster Plantation is in and around Frederick since historically there is one there. The real plantation where they filmed is right out of Richmond though. I may also be projecting a little too much on Jed in terms of the way his parents favourite Ezra. Also the sister thing, I figure they probably would have had a sibling that died young. I have a whole thing about her, but I didn't want to really go into it too far with this fic.
> 
> This was so self indulgent and I will apologise for nothing.


End file.
